


Soaring and Falling

by ThatMasterOnline



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 07:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21194288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatMasterOnline/pseuds/ThatMasterOnline
Summary: A sort of companion piece to ineffablefool's "A Plea, a Petition, a Kind of Prayer", which is linked here, if all goes well. Best to read that first, but you don't miss anything if you don't. Crowley reads Aziraphale's love letters to him. Mentions of Aziraphale/Oscar Wilde and Crowley/Freddie Mercury. Also mentions of Gabriel, Beelzebub and Satan as characters. TW for suicide, namely Aziraphale thinking Crowley wants to kill himself and writing a whole letter begging him not to, ie, the Holy Water scene of 1967.





	Soaring and Falling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ineffablefool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Plea, A Petition, A Kind Of Prayer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20217421) by [ineffablefool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/pseuds/ineffablefool). 

After that day in the bookshop, when Aziraphale had found his letters, the day Crowley had discovered that his arms fit  _ just perfectly  _ around Aziraphale's middle, everything had changed, for the better. He and Aziraphale fit together, in all the ways that counted and even a few that didn't, really. He had been so caught up in Aziraphale and this thing they had now that he forgot all about Aziraphale's letters to him. Now that he could pull away from the angel long enough to resume some semblance of a normal life, he found himself wondering about the letters. Were Aziraphale's letters just as heartfelt and full of desperate longing as his? He needed to know. Fully. In-depth. None of this "it's alright if you just skim it" nonsense, he wanted to read every word. So, one afternoon where Crowley had not managed to pull himself away from Aziraphale, Crowley reached for the letters. 

"It's three in the afternoon, Crowley, I'm afraid you'll have quite a long night of reading ahead of you if you start on those now." Crowley smiled as he settled back down on Aziraphale's lap and Aziraphale's hand went back into his hair. He could tell that Aziraphale was being honest. There was nothing else behind those words. He didn't mean 'I'm nervous about what you'll think' or 'I'd rather you wait until you were alone to read those', he well and truly meant 'You're going to start reading those  _ now _ ? You'll be reading all night!'

"I'm alright with that," Crowley replied, and Aziraphale smiled. Crowley opened the first letter and began to read.

_ 1941 _

_ My dearest, _

_ I've heard that writing can be a good way to clear one's thoughts, and I certainly need to do that. You have filled me with so many thoughts, and I simply can't sort them out, so I hope this will help. _

_ My books. My thoughts go back to my satchel of books, you handing them over to me, the way your finger reached out to caress my hand, to savour its warmth just a bit longer. (Did you notice that? I certainly did.) In my mind, our hands are forever connected through the handle of my satchel, and my mind can't move itself past that point. I hear your voice say "Lift home?", so flippantly, as though you haven't blown my world apart and frozen it in place all at once. Did I accept that offer, dearest? Did you drive me home? I'm afraid I can't remember, my next memory is standing in my shop with my satchel. Did we talk, on the way back? I imagine we didn't. You must have thought me terribly rude, dearest, I'm so terribly sorry. I never meant to be rude, it's just that, to me, I never left the rubble of that church. Could have miracled myself home for how much I remember of the time between our hands connecting and me standing in my shop. _

Aziraphale  _ had  _ been silent the whole way back. It had made him think of shellshock, from the first war, the way the men stared blankly into space, lost in memories of artillery. Turns out he wasn't terribly far from the truth. He had thought Aziraphale was wondering about his kindness, but he hadn't known it had been that much of a shock to him.

_ Even now, writing these words, my hand keeps stopping as my mind goes back to the church, and our hands touching, and the way your finger reached out to caress mine. (It could have been an errant shift, I suppose, it was subtle enough, but I've already convinced myself you were just unwilling to let go quite yet. I'm hopeless.) _

_ ...That's the issue, isn't it? I'm hopeless, hopelessly in love with you. I know now why they call it falling in love, because it truly feels like I'm falling, if you'll pardon the expression. I love you, I love you so much it hurts, and now I've started to wonder if you love me back. Each time I replay that night - tonight, goodness, was it just tonight? It feels like an eternity ago - in my mind, I find it blanketed by the question of Why. Why would you save my books? I'd truly forgotten all about them, my mind was focused on you, and the way you were getting me out of trouble, once again. I thought my precious books had been lost forever, but you saved them. Why? Why would you save them? You don't care about books, you said once that the letters float about on the page and that reading gives you a headache. So why would you save some dusty old books? For me? Because you knew I'd want the books protected? But why? Why save the books for me if you didn't care about me? Do you care? How much do you care? Do you love me back, or is miracling the safety of some books something ethereal best friends do for eachother?  _

_ ...I can't tell you I love you. You already know why. It wouldn't work, not with our head offices. I feel so much like Romeo and Juliet, and I know that if I confessed my love for you our story would end in tragedy just like theirs did. I know it would. You already want the poison that would end it all for you. I won't take back what I said, you know it's true, after all, but seeing you today...I've missed you, dearest. So much. I can't bear to be away from you for that long ever again. I want to see you again, and I don't want to wait almost a century for it to happen. I think...perhaps...an apology is in order. I did lose my temper, a bit. Soon, I'll find you and apologize. It's the least I can do. _

_ Your angel _

"You came to apologize to me the very next day," Crowley murmured.

"That I did," Aziraphale said gently, "I really was sorry for driving you away like that."

"Your apology was a bit of a cock-up too," Crowley said, but there was no bite to it, and he moved on to the next letter. Dated 1942, Aziraphale lamented the implementation of the "final solution", and the war in general. Crowley grimaced. Those years had been bad all around. 

The next letter was dated 1945, and held nothing but sheer relief at the end of the war, though it expressed regret that this meant he and Crowley wouldn't have an excuse to spend time together. Crowley opened the next letter, dated quite a few years later.

It was crumpled in spots and the ink was a touch blurred, as though drops of liquid had been spilled on it. Crowley didn't even have to ask what those droplets were, not with the date on the letter.

_ 1967 _

_ I've done it. I've given you what you asked for. Please, please don't let this be the last time I see you, please. It's all I can do now, beg and plead for you to stay with me. I've given you what you wanted, and the agony of it is unbearable. I didn't want you to accidentally kill yourself trying to get it, but the thought that you might have left me, driven straight home and killed yourself anyways… _

_ Don't leave me, please don't leave me. Give me that dinner at the Ritz, give me that picnic, please, tell me we'll meet again, even if it's just for the Arrangement.  _

_ I was cruel, I was so terribly cruel to you. "You go too fast for me." I replay those words over and over and over. What if those are the last words I ever speak to you? What if the last thing you hear in my voice is a rejection? I was blind, I was afraid, I couldn't think straight through the fear that I was going to lose you. _

_ I love you, I love you, I love you, drop me anywhere you like, but please, please just stay with me. Please. Please. Stay with me. Don't do this to yourself, we'll figure it out, just please stay with me.  _

_ Don't let this letter be the last one I write in the present tense. _

_ Please. _

Crowley was crying, and he wasn't even going to try to hide it. He buried his face in Aziraphale's stomach and sniffed. He understood now, why Aziraphale got so angry about the holy water. He understood why he'd gone utterly stiff the first time they went back to his flat and he'd seen the Ligur-puddle on the floor. 

"I was never going to leave you, angel," he said when he'd pulled himself together, "I wanted to use it to fight back if hell ever came for me, and that was exactly what I did. You saved my life with that holy water, angel."

"I'd…" He choked on the words, but Crowley understood. He'd understood when Aziraphale, normally so careful with his miracles, had miracled away not only the Ligur-puddle, but the colour in the floorboards underneath. He'd felt the raw desperation, the  _ just get it out of my sight _ that permeated the miracle, and Crowley had replaced the colour, making the floor good as new. He knew. The holy water was one particular memory Aziraphale was trying to force down, as far as it would go, and he knew that Aziraphale's choked sentence ended with "rather not talk about it."

He moved onto the next letter.

_ 1972 _

_ You were in such an excellent mood today. I couldn't tell you about what. The fact that you were here, that you were smiling, was all I cared to see. We went to lunch, your treat, and what an excellent lunch it was. What did I eat? Was it good? Did you inconvenience some of the patrons, while I looked on and scolded you thoroughly to hide my laugh? I don't know. You were there, and that was all that mattered to me. What I can tell you is that you had changed your hairstyle. Your bangs were sideswept now, and you kept running your hand through them. You were wearing a grey dress shirt, plain, but somehow you made it look good. You had a black denim jacket on, and those pants that flared out at the bottom. And you were smiling. You never stopped smiling, you looked lighter than air. Oh, you tried to hide it, of course, but after all this time I know you too well. You smiled, you laughed, and your eyes were so bright, brighter than stars. Why were you so happy? Normally I can figure it out, even if you won't tell me outright, but today was a mystery. I suppose I was too caught up in my own joy to try to riddle it out. You were there, you were alive, you were smiling. That was all I saw. I'll treasure that memory for a long time, because when we parted...those thoughts came back. That it would be the last time I saw you. One last treat...No, I mustn't think like this. You were there, you were happy. You didn't drive home and immediately do away with yourself. You must be here to stay. You must. _

"I noticed you staring," Crowley said, "All through lunch. You didn't have a clue what I was saying, did you?"

"Not in the slightest," Aziraphale answered brightly, and then his expression softened, and he took Crowley's hand. "You were alive. That was all I cared about." Crowley smiled, then turned back to the letters.

A letter dated 1976, casually mentioning the Arrangement, some small temptation Aziraphale had done. 

" _ Guy was a bit of a...well, a wanker, heaven wouldn't have wanted him anyways _ "? Crowley quoted incredulously.

"He was!" Aziraphale insisted, "He told me that people were all selfish and that I was no exception! It wasn't even that difficult to tempt him, it would have happened eventually." Crowley snorted, flipping open the next letter. And his heart stopped about halfway through.

" _ I bought a quill today _ ," Crowley read aloud, and Aziraphale flushed, clearing his throat. " _ My quill broke, and I had to buy this new one at a specialty store, since quills have gone out of style. When I saw it, I knew I had to have it. It was long, and black as night, and I was reminded of your wings, your feathers. I'm writing with it now, and it makes my heart flutter to imagine that I'm writing with one of your feathers. _ "

Aziraphale was beet red and not meeting Crowley's eyes.

"So," Crowley began, a smirk on his face, "...Nice quill?"

"...Writes well," Aziraphale said curtly, embarrassed, and Crowley stood, unfurling his wings.

"I think it's time for a new one, don't you?" Crowley turned around and sat in front of Aziraphale.

"I know this lovely quill shop that just opened, just for you," he continued, "Pick your favourite. Go on, any one you like." Aziraphale could only stare, running his hands through Crowley's sleek black wings.

"...Any one I like?" he echoed uncertainly, and Crowley hummed.

"Any one you like. Quills need a sharp tug to come free of the shelf."

"Ah...yes...of course…" There was one, a nice long primary feather that was jet black. And shiny, so shiny, but it had tiny flecks of gray in it, like dust. Aziraphale loved it. He put his fingers around the feather.

"Ready?" He asked softly.

"Ready. Don't count, just yank," Crowley replied, and Aziraphale nodded. He took a deep breath and plucked the feather right out. Crowley hissed in pain, and Aziraphale soothed the spot with a small miracle. He couldn't heal it outright, but easing the pain should help. Crowley sighed with relief, stretching and flapping his wings to work out the discomfort, then he stood.

"I hope you like it, because I don't do exchanges," Crowley groused, and Aziraphale smiled.

"I love it," he said, "I'll treasure it forever. Thank you, Crowley." Crowley nodded and curled back up in Aziraphale's lap, opening the next letter.

_ 1991 _

_ You were upset today. You didn't tell me why, but if I had to guess, I'd say it was about Freddie's passing. You seemed close to him. Or at least, you spoke about him with such familiarity that I assumed you were close. I was jealous of him, truth be told. You were so close I assumed you were intimate. I assumed your relationship was like the one I shared with dear Oscar, and I envied the way he could be close to you. I was jealous of the secrets you no doubt shared with him, when you both lay together in bed. I could imagine it, if I wanted to, you and him together in bed, bare-chested, after a night of passion, just like Oscar and I used to do. It made me- _

"You were intimate with Oscar? Oscar Wilde?"

"Yes. He was such a bright young fellow, and after that day in 1891, I just…"

"...Needed someone," Crowley finished, his tone unreadable.

"We were always very close, mind you, but our few short years of passion were mostly grief-driven, at least on my part. Neither of us really loved the other, he loved that other man, and I loved you, but in that closed-off society, he said, he would never reject a man the closeness of another man. He saw my grief and need, and he did what he could to provide comfort. Such a sweet, bright, kind young soul...such a pity he died when he did, so young…" Crowley nodded.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you," he finally said, quietly.

"Oh, there's nothing to apologize for, I was being silly. I made my assumptions and I didn't let you explain yourself properly. All my fault, really." Crowley was silent.

"...I was. Intimate with him. Freddie. Only a couple times. After the car, I...well…"

"...Needed someone?" Aziraphale finished with a quirk of his lips. Crowley smiled.

"You and I, we're not so different." Aziraphale only smiled in response, and Crowley went back to reading.

_ -so angry, to think of how close you were. I want that with you, more than anything, and it feels like eternal torment, knowing that I can't have it. You don't have to Fall to be damned, I find myself thinking, but I know you'd disagree. _

"Not really. Boiling sulfur doesn't really compare to unrequited love. Falling's probably easier, now I think about it." Aziraphale snorted.

_ I'd thought I would be glad when he finally died, but I can't bring myself to be happy about anything that causes you grief. Standing there, with you, seeing the misery on your face...I find myself being sorry that he's passed. It's inevitable, with humans, I know that all too well, but still. I'm sorry he's passed. I'm sorry you couldn't have had more time with him. I'll get you a present, I think. To remind you of him. Should I? Would that ease the ache, or make it worse? Well, when I look at Oscar's poems, I feel both fondness and pain, but having them brings me closer to Oscar, so perhaps I should get you something. I think I will. Next time we meet, I'll give it to you. _

_ Yours, always _

"...I don't remember you ever giving me a gift," Crowley said, and Aziraphale looked mortified, nearly knocking Crowley off the couch in his haste to sit up.

"Oh goodness, no, I didn't! So sorry, dear boy, it's just I was so distraught the next time we met, I couldn't even think about it! I have it here, oh, it's  _ so  _ late, I had really meant to- oh…" He bustled to the back of the shop, bemoaning his own forgetfulness, and finally came back with a wrapped gift. It was obviously a CD, from the size of it, and the wrapping was faded with thirty years of decay, but it was the thought that counted. Crowley took it, gently, and unwrapped it. Immediately Freddie Mercury's face stared back at him, along with the other members of the band. QUEEN: GREATEST HITS was written on the album. Crowley had the exact same album already. Didn't matter. That one was going in the trash next time he saw it. His angel had gotten him this, and it was meant to be a bereavement gift. The fact that he forgot for thirty or more years didn't change the sentiment, and Crowley smiled fondly, thumb brushing over Freddie's face as though the loss had been yesterday and not thirty years ago or more. 

"...Thanks, angel. S'means a lot."

"Oh, it's nothing. I'm so sorry it's late."

"Think nothing of it. The next time we met, was that…?" He nodded meaningfully, and Aziraphale nodded, turning away and miracling up a handkerchief to dab at his eyes. He waved vaguely at the pile of letters in Crowley's lap, and Crowley picked up the next letter, bracing himself.

_ 1994 _

_ I'm afraid I was poor company today, but I can't bring myself to care. All those people dying here in Rwanda, for nothing, no reason at all, and I can't do anything about it! I...may have, anyways. I persuaded one man to try to shelter the Tutsi people, but that's nowhere near enough to make a dent.  _

"That one guy did an awful lot, though. Imagine what heaven would say if they knew that one hero was your doing."

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, warningly, and his tone made him shut up. Kids nowadays said "too soon" ironically, but it could just as easily be meant unironically as well.

_ I would have done so much if I could, and being forced to watch and do nothing at all...Heaven wanted the souls, but the whole thing seemed more of a victory for Hell. All those deaths for pointless hate, I can still hear the screams, even as I write...And yet my hands are tied. I'm not even supposed to be here. I can't use any miracles or they'll know. You've said they don't care, but if they found out… _

_ These screams will haunt me for eons, I'm sure of it. I don't know what I'm even doing here. Helping is so much more difficult without miracles. It feels hopeless. I feel hopeless. When I bumped into you today...I couldn't force myself to be happy, I couldn't pretend it was alright. Thank you for your kind words today, Crowley. I appreciate them, but I'm just not ready to hear them yet. It's still too painful. I won't be alright until this horrible affair is over. _

_ If I am glad for anything, it's that I believed you when you said you had nothing whatsoever to do with this. Thank you. Thank you, so much. _

_ Yours, always _

_ P.S. I tried to tell my side what you said, that Hell was having a field day with all the violence. My pleas fell on deaf ears. I don't know what's worse: The hatred I see on the aggressors' faces, the terror I see on the victims', or the indifference I saw on Gabriel's. _

_ P.P.S. _

* * *

The bottom of the letter was ripped. 

"Where's the rest?" Crowley asked, and Aziraphale stiffened.

"Oh, I'm afraid I was quite drunk when I wrote the rest of the letter," he said in a tone that was trying for airy and indifferent, but ended up sounding thin and choked, "It was gibberish, really. When I sobered up, I realized it was laughable and threw it away. Nothing of consequence, the writing wasn't even legible." Crowley stared.

"...Right," he said slowly, and then " **Tell me what you wrote.** " The voice sounded more in his mind than in his ears, and Aziraphale answered on instinct.

"I said I'd rather Fall than sit on the sidelines and be forced into silence. I begged Her to cast me out. I said it would be better to Fall, because then you and I could be together. I wanted to Fall. With all my heart." Aziraphale gasped, like coming up from underwater, and his eyes focused on Crowley.

"You...you hypnotized me!"

"You lied to me; we're fair game," Crowley replied darkly. Azirphale spluttered.

"Wh- That's hardly the same thing! And...and besides…" Crowley raised an eyebrow and waited.

"...I didn't want you to think less of me."

"I don't." Crowley nuzzled into Aziraphale's stomach and was rewarded with a hand in his hair, "I know all about losing faith, angel. I know all about you. You don't have to pretend to be an unshakeable angel, not for me."

"...I…"

"You were right to ask those questions, angel. There's no shame in them. It's alright to doubt."

"I...I just…"

"Do you still feel that way?"

"...No, actually. I've met some of them, the survivors. They were some of the kindest people I'd ever met. They forgave, everything, and everyone. All the people and systems that failed them, they forgave them all. I...I realized that if they could forgive, and move on...then so could I...I...would like to go back. I hear it's a lovely place now, completely rebuilt, moving forward, all that."

"Sure. We could take a trip, anytime you like." Aziraphale smiled gently.

"Thank you."

"So," Crowley said, leaning back, "That's the last letter."

"It isn't, actually. You've missed one."

"I have?"

"Yes. I finished it the day you arrived at my flat and I found out about your letters." Crowley raised his eyebrows, and Aziraphale tapped his shoulder gently.

"Come on now, up you get. I need to go get it." Crowley obediently sat up, and Aziraphale when to the back of the shop and came back with the last letter. He handed it to Crowley, who took it and sat back with Aziraphale.

_ 2020 _

_ What a whirlwind of activity it's been these past eleven years. I haven't written in so long, but it's incredibly relaxing, now. We did it. We're free. No more Heaven, no more Hell, just us. Our side. I was blind before, I wasn't willing to listen. Thinking back to my words - it's always my words, isn't it? - from those days before the apocalypse, I have so much to apologize for. I was terribly cruel to you. I still had faith, then.  _

_ What an odd phrase, "I still had faith". It implies that I no longer have faith, and yet I haven't Fallen. I wonder why. I've committed what can only be described as the ultimate act of treason against Heaven, and yet I'm still an angel. I've checked. I'm almost ashamed to admit that I checked almost hourly when we were apart, in the days following our respective trials. I don't know what I was so afraid of. You've already Fallen. If I did fall, I could rest assured that you would be there to catch me. _

_ I'm afraid I wasn't the best houseguest when we went back to your flat, after lunch. No, wait, I'll come back to that.  _

_ Lunch. The Ritz. Oh, my dear, I can't possibly tell you how much it meant to me that we dined at the Ritz. You gave me my lunch at the Ritz. Thank you. Thank you. It felt to me like you were saying you were here to stay, and I felt fears I hadn't known existed washing away. Thank you. Thank you. I insist we go on a picnic next. I insist. _

_ Back to your flat. I...can't fully explain what happened, when I saw that puddle of demon mush on the floor. You've known me for so long, you must have seen the panic in my eyes. You did, now that I think about it. Your hand was on my arm almost the moment I felt the urge to touch you, to make sure it wasn't you in that puddle. You knew, didn't you? Or, you suspected. I never thanked you for that touch. It was incredibly grounding. Somehow, even though you were right beside me, it felt like there was a possibility it was you in that puddle. Writing it out now, it sounds so silly, but in that moment I wasn't thinking rationally.  _

_ I used to be a soldier of Heaven, and now look at me, panicking about a figment of my imagination. Gabriel was right. I have gone soft. _

"Gabriel was  _ wrong _ ," Crowley said forcefully, "Don't  _ ever  _ let him tell you you're soft."

"I know, darling," Aziraphale replied, a slight curve to his mouth, as though laughing at an inside joke. "I couldn't be soft if I wanted to. Well, except for you."

"...But…"

"Keep reading, darling."

_ But then, it was hardly a figment of my imagination, was it? If we hadn't figured out Agnes Nutter's last prophecy, you'd have been a puddle of demon mush in Hell, in a bathtub. Perhaps...I had what humans call a "panic attack"? The holy water on your floor reminded me of the memories of me, as you, in Hell awaiting destruction. Yes, that was it. I faced certain death that day. If I had been wrong, I'd have been one angel amongst a horde of demons, Beelzebub themselves included among them. I faced death then, and I faced death trying to stop the antichrist. If we're counting discorporarions, I was killed, completely by accident. I faced death, and I had a hand in averting the apocalypse, and then I walked into Hell, alone. Gabriel wouldn't have been able to do that. You told me he quivered in the face of you spitting hellfire. I'm braver than any of the other angels there. I was willing to take on Satan himself, to save Earth. If that isn't strength, I don't know what is. No, I haven't gone soft. I just have a different kind of strength that isn't based in killing. A strength Gabriel and his kind could never understand. But I'm free now,  _ _ we're  _ _ free, and I don't want to talk about it any longer. Wonders of writing a letter, I get to control the topic of discussion. _

_ By the way, I found the most incredible set of letters, my dear. The sheer force of the love I feel...hits a little too close to home, specifically because it doesn't seem this young man ever had his love requited. The last letter has him meeting his 'angel' in 1891. He has something to talk about, and he hopes his sweetheart with be amenable. No names are mentioned in any of the letters, no doubt for secrecy, you know how those times were with men like...well, like me. It absolutely boggles my mind to think that I might have wandered the same streets as this love-stricken gentleman. They're so strange, though. These letters span more than eighty years, and this man references the Flood as though he were there! Was it some kind of private joke, between this man and his angel, I wonder? I mean to ask you about it. Perhaps between the two of us we can put a name to this anonymous young gentleman, and see if he ever confessed his love, and if it was ever returned. I'll bring them over tomorrow when we meet for lunch.  
_

_ Yours, always and forever, _

_ Aziraphale _

"...And we've come full circle," Crowley concluded.

"Oh? How so?" 

"My last letter was the meeting when I was going to ask for holy water. You didn't know if my love was reciprocated. This last letter of yours, you're bringing something to me, and an outside reader wouldn't know if your love was reciprocated. But now that we've shared our letters, you and I both know the full story." Aziraphale felt his lips quirk.

"Two idiots spent six thousand years dancing around their feelings and only confessed their love because one of them left their heartfelt letters somewhere the other could read them?" Crowley smiled, that genuine smile Aziraphale loved.

"I dunno, angel. Sounds like a bestseller to me."


End file.
